


Turn on a Sixpence

by merripestin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Fat People Having Good Sex, M/M, Mycroft has food issues, Oral Sex, Prompt Fic, Sex in a Car, gridlockDC writing workshop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 21:11:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2165361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merripestin/pseuds/merripestin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Naked, Mycroft was a pied thing, all freckles, splotches of pink across his pale chest, sock garters binding his wrists over his head in the back of a taxi.  </p>
<p>"Comfortable?" Mike asked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn on a Sixpence

**Author's Note:**

> At Emma Grant's table at the gridlockdc fanfic workshop I got the prompts: Stamford, Mycroft, bondage, taxi, "It's on fire."
> 
> I don't usually do prompts, because usually it just ends in annoyance for all involved. But ... Mike.
> 
> (this has not gone through my usual thousand rounds of editing)

Naked, Mycroft was a pied thing, all freckles, splotches of pink across his pale chest.

"Comfortable?" Mike asked.

Mycroft pulled at the sock garters binding his wrists over his head. Mike was nearly sure a handy attachment point for bondage above the rear-facing seats wasn't a standard amenity, even in the more upscale taxis. He refused to speculate on other reasons the government might have need of a black cab with the rear windows and partition blacked out and facilities for tying people up, staffed with a driver who'd presumably both learned the Knowledge and signed the Official Secrets Act.

"Mmf," said Mycroft pointedly, and an edge of the briefs stuffed into his mouth escaped.

Mike smiled, and kindly put his finger at the corner of Mycroft's mouth to poke the damp fabric back inside. "You could nod," Mike pointed out.

Mycroft's eyeroll and sarcastic nod didn't bother Mike; it probably impressed the civil service types when he was in his usual armour of suit and tie. When he was naked and bound it was just the habitual defiance of a man who knew he could never, ever, be quite powerful enough. There were flecks of deodorant caught in the exposed auburn tufts of underarm hair. His mouth, stuffed, had lost its cool amused smirk. Where Mike had been a bit casual with him when tying him up, his pomaded hair stuck up in spikes or wilted over his forehead.

Mike looked down. "You don't _look_ very comfortable," he commented. Mycroft's stiff cock gleamed wetly, reflecting light from streetlights and the lamps of the cars around them. Mike reached over to give it a sympathetic squeeze. He'd always thought it quite a pretty cock, smooth, with a lightly-flared head and an elegant and rather wicked curve.

Mike turned aside to raise the lid from the flat metal pan neatly packed for them. Inside, the pale crepes were just starting to lose their firmness to the beurre — they'd been sitting too long, but Mike hadn't been about to rush foreplay for something that was really just another of Mycroft's whims.

He poured in the orange liqueur and cognac, and lit the crepes. Blue flame soaked across the dish as it went up.

"Mmf," said Mycroft.

"Right, I know, but if you want it done properly, don't ask me to do it in a cab."

"Mmf," said Mycroft.

"Don't rush me."

" _Mmf!_ "

Mike reached across to slap Mycroft's left nipple, three sharp smacks that made him whine. "Have some patience. It's on fire. Give it a moment."

But by the time Mike ate the first few bites, it was really only for the form of the thing. The flame had helped the texture, but he was quite impatient himself.

Holding one more bite in his mouth to savour, Mike opened his trousers at last, and palmed himself in relief before working the trousers and pants off and making sure everything was ready. This part, cab or no cab, would certainly be done properly.

Then Mike reached across to brace one hand on the door and turned in the tight space, shifting across to his new seat.

Mycroft gave a sob of gratitude — loud despite the muffling fabric — as Mike sank onto that charming cock.

Either because traffic had got more aggressive or because the driver had been briefed on his job as a sex aid, Mike noticed the cab started taking rather a lot of sharp curves after that, and seemed to bump over every possible fault in the tarmac.

Mike, sighing in bliss, dreamily considered the possibility of Mycroft having seen to it that roadway maintenance got a bit neglected, in the cause of a better fuck.

They had definitely just taken two goes around that traffic circle.

The bumps and swerves shifted Mycroft's cock amazingly inside Mike, but they wouldn't be getting Mycroft off any time soon as long as Mike kept him pinned.  Before long, Mycroft was sobbing less happily, trying to shove up, get deeper, after more friction and speed.

Mike let him wait, weighing Mycroft down just as he was, until Mike felt that beautiful, subtle change in the muscles under him, the giving-way as Mycroft's motions lost their deliberation, became desperate and uncontrolled. Then he started giving Mycroft an occasional generous bounce. "You do really have a lovely cock," he admitted, breathless.

The gentle movements as Mike used his cock, with only an occasional quick thrust, meant Mycroft took a long time to come. When he finally did, he struggled madly through it, tugging his arms, whining helplessly, twitching inside Mike.

After, his head dropped against Mike's back and he blotted his damp face against Mike's shirt, panting. Mike let him have a few quiet moments to enjoy, and then pulled off and shifted back to his former seat, wincing a little. He'd wanted to spread some towels, but Mycroft had assured him a thorough upholstery cleaning was scheduled. Mike supposed a bit of filthiness was part of the point of the cab scenario in Mycroft's head.

Mycroft had slumped sideways far enough to hang from his wrists, but he was getting his breath back. When he raised his head and looked over at Mike, recovered, Mike reached up to untangle the garters.

Once he was free, Mycroft, not strictly obedient — though Mike had been about to give the order— spat out his pants. Unless Mycroft demanded it, Mike thought they'd give that bit a miss next time. It deadened all the wonderful sounds Mycroft made, and while Mycroft might ask to be degraded, those were never the aspects he responded to best in practice.

Mike passed him a bottle of water and gave him a moment. Then he dug his fingers into that pomade-slippery hair and dragged Mycroft's head down. Mycroft folded up into the position he liked— his knees next to Mike's foot on the floor of the cab, one arm wrapped across Mike's thighs— and took Mike's cock, mouth soft. Mike dragged him down by the hair, held him there, showing him how deep he was expected to go, and then let him loose.

Mike let his head fall back, eyes nearly closed so that all he saw were dazzles of light and soft shadows passing across his vision. Mycroft mostly behaved himself, needy sucking at Mike's glans, and gentle bobbing with the movement of the cab — which had got suspiciously smoother. Twice he tried to bury his face in Mike's flesh, pressing his face to Mike's belly and thighs, which pushed Mike's thick cock into his throat. The first time, Mike just clicked his tongue meaningfully and got an annoyed glare. The second time he dragged Mycroft off by the hair. "None of that. You know it's too big for you."

Mycroft pulled back, angry and defiant and so desperate for a firm gentle hand.

Mike didn't let him argue. "Stop if you want, but if my cock isn't back in your mouth, exactly as deep as it's _supposed_ to be, in the count of five," Mike promised, "I'm afraid you can forget about having it up your bum for _another_ week."

"Mmp!" Mycroft promised, pushing his mouth down over Mike's erection in a rush before Mike could start counting.

After that, Mycroft was very good, so good, and Mike told him so, and Mycroft sucked, sucked, sucked, until Mike felt orgasm rising up, heat and anticipation in his balls, his spine tensing, that perfect peaceful moment of joy on the brink.

He sighed, looking down at a blotch of pink on the back of Mycroft's neck, at the mess of hair, at Mycroft's fingers tucked in to grip behind Mike's knee. "All right, if you're so keen to choke yourself," he sighed, indulgent, "go ahead."

Humming in satisfaction, Mycroft fucked Mike's cock as deep into his throat as he could get it, face pressing into Mike's skin. Mike reflected that if his belly hadn't been there to provide a bit of a buffer, Mycroft would have left himself too sore to speak in any meetings he had tomorrow. Mike supposed there were worse ways to make a contribution to successful international negotiations.

With a great long moan, one hand cupping that fragile blush-and-pale nape, Mike came, a wave of sweetness burning outward across all his tensed muscles.

He sighed, smiling, loose and pleased, staying still as Mycroft, in stages, nuzzled his way up until he was cuddled close on the seat, a tightly curled and slightly shaky bundle of pale limbs that pushed in under Mike's arm, face pressing at Mike's shoulder.

Mike reached over with the other hand to stroke the hair smooth again. "We didn't make much of your crepes, as it turned out. Would you like some?" he murmured.

Mycroft shook his head, face hiding, but with a recognisable hesitance that told Mike to pinch off a shred of crepe and poke it gently between Mycroft's slightly raw lips. Another followed after a little while, and eventually another, Mycroft nursing softly at Mike's fingers for as long as they were in reach.

After the last, Mycroft's trapezii — usually stony-tense— had gone very nearly malleable under Mike's hand, and he'd reached that funny state he got, not quite dozing, that seemed to be the closest a conscious Mycroft got to relaxation.

Mike would have loved to let him linger there for hours, but a big part of what made this work was that Mycroft could trust Mike to see that he was back home in time to be rested and alert to govern a sizable fraction of the world in the morning. Soon Mike would have to dress him, and then maybe a chess problem, because there wasn't time for a real game, to get the thought processes going again, so that Mycroft would emerge from the taxi the same sleek and seamless man, part iceberg and all irony, that had entered it.

But they'd time, still, a little time, and Mike stroked his thumb gently across a field of freckles as they drove and drove and drove.

 


End file.
